


Brownies

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treville is shot, Athos is waiting at the hospital, and then someone turns up and tells them he's Treville's son. They didn't know Treville had family at all, let alone children. This isn't really about that. It's about his son, Porthos, and Athos, and them falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brownies

**Author's Note:**

> found another complete fic. Yay. 
> 
> WARNINGS: Porthos' backstory includes his mother dying when he's young, and being adopted. Porthos is in the army and gets hurt. Hospitals.

Athos co-ordinates the search for the shooter, until another DCI turns up to supervise, along with a uniform Inspector and Chief Inspector. Athos leaves them all to it and heads to the hospital.

Treville is in surgery, but the nurse says Athos can wait. There are a couple of uniforms hanging around, and DI Jenkins, and Aramis. Athos goes to sit with Aramis, sitting upright in the hard plastic chair, tense. Aramis gives him a small smile. The nurse from the desk comes over ten minutes later, leading a man to the waiting room. To Athos' surprise, she makes for him, meeting his eyes, as if she's going to talk to him. Athos gets to his feet, wondering if there's news.

“This is DCI de la Fère, he works with Jean Treville and says he should be notified about any changes,” the nurse says, directing her words at the man who came in with her.

Athos looks at him again, with more interest. He's tall, dark skin, dark eyes. He looks fairly distressed, his hands are twisting on his belt.

“How can I help?” Athos asks.

“This is Porthos Vallon, he's the son of Superintendent Treville, and his emergency contact. I thought perhaps the two of you might like to be introduced?” The nurse says.

“Thank you,” Athos says. “I was unaware that he had any children, I'm sorry. I would have got in touch had I known, Mr. Vallon.”

“It's okay. It's a bit complicated. It's lieutenant, actually, but you can use Porthos. I'd prefer it really,” Porthos says. Then he clears his throat, eyes skittering over the room of police. “Do you know what happened? They couldn't tell me much.”

“Why don't we sit?” Athos suggests, pointing to some chairs away from the crowd.

They sit, Porthos waiting until Athos does, as if taking his cue. Athos wonders what he's a lieutenant of, but doesn't ask. Instead he asks Porthos if he wants some tea.

“No. Just to know what happened to 'im,” Porthos says.

“We were on what should have been a routine duty, we were there for show, because an important person had been receiving threats about a public appearance. We were there to keep an eye. Treville was not the target, he's no longer in danger,” Athos says.

“He was shot?” Porthos asks. “They said he got shot, in the back. They told me they were operating.”

“Yes. He was shot. I don't know any more about the medical side than you do,” Athos says, though he kind of does. He can guess here and there.

“God. I knew his job wasn't always… he told me he was mostly stuck behind a desk these days. Told me not to worry. Nothing could happen. He's safe, supposed to be safe,” Porthos says. Athos is pretty sure he's not really talking to Athos. “I'm the one in the army, should be me getting shot. Bloody hell, I can't believe he got shot. Don't you learn to dodge, or something?”

“Do you?” Athos asks.

“Right. Stupid question. Sorry. I babble a bit, when I'm nervous sometimes. He's gonna be okay, though, right? He's being fixed up, there's a hospital and proper doctors and everything.”

“There are all those things, yes,” Athos says, uncomfortable.

He's not sure enough of how badly Treville's hurt to give his absolute assurance. He look around for Aramis. Aramis raises his eyebrow when Athos catches his eye. Athos jerks his head and Aramis comes over, crouching in front of them, waiting for Athos to explain.

“This is Aramis,” Athos says. “He's the chaplain at the station. He and Treville are friends, and Aramis has worked on cases with us in the past. Aramis, this is Treville's son, Porthos.”

“His son?” Aramis says. “I didn't know he had kids.”

“Yeah. That seems to be common,” Porthos says, softly. “It's a bit complicated.”

“Well what family relationship isn't complicated?” Aramis says, cheerfully. “Don't worry about it. Treville's a very private man, we know very little about him.”

“Yeah? Okay,” Porthos says. “I need 'im to be alright.”

Aramis gives Athos a small, amused head-shake, seeing Athos' problem. Athos is notoriously bad at comforting people, and Porthos obviously needs comforting. Aramis sits on Porthos' other side and says some gentle, kind things. He promises Treville's in very good hands, has very good care, and has the best chance. He then gently guides Porthos away from that, and tells him stories about Treville at work- people being fond of him, respecting him, him doing funny things.

“Aramis is very good,” Porthos says, when Aramis gets up to go get them some tea.

“Hmm?” Athos says.

“At his job. That's 'is job, right? Reassurin' people and stuff?”

“Close enough,” Athos says. “He is good at it.”

“Yes, he is. Thanks.”

“For?”

“Not attemptin' to tell me everything would be fine or something. Can you tell me more about him getting shot, please? Where was he shot?” Porthos asks.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Athos says. Porthos nods. He's a grown man, Athos decides, and shrugs. “Very well. He was shot in the back. There was no exit wound. His breathing wasn't clear, and there was blood in his mouth.”

“Shit,” Porthos says, rubbing his face. “God. Okay, that's… that's not too bad. Bad enough, but not… not the worst.”

Athos takes a moment to wonder what 'the worst' might be, then remembers that Porthos mentioned being in the army, and decides 'the worst' can probably be pretty bad. Porthos takes some deep breaths, then nods again.

“He was still breathing and stuff, when you saw 'im?” Porthos says.

“Yes. He was stable when they transported him,” Athos says, and doesn't add four hours ago. Aramis returns with tea, and they sit in silence, waiting.

“Family for superintendent Treville?” A doctor says, coming out. Porthos gets to his feet.

“Is he going to be alright?” Aramis murmurs, watching Porthos make his unsteady way across the room. Athos shrugs. “Do you think he'll come tell us?”

“Yes. He's army, he'll know that there are people waiting to hear,” Athos says.

“Is he, though? Soldier boy? Interesting. I can see it. Did you see his shoulders? Praise Jesus,” Aramis says, grinning.

“There are times I wonder about you, Aramis,” Athos says.

They wait. And wait. Another forty minutes and Porthos comes back out, looking pale, but smiling. He clears his throat and looks around the room, smiling a little wider. He nods to them, and they stand, as if summoned by him, gathering around.

“He's gonna be okay,” Porthos says, still smiling. “I saw 'im. The bullet was slowed by that ridiculous leather he wears, and things went well. It did get his lung, but just the one and only a bit and they fixed it and got the blood out, so he's breathin' fine. I am aware that most 'a you don' know me. He's your superintendent, so he's important to you, and you might feel odd about me bein' here. Sorry for that. He's private. I'm his son. Um, is that… I feel like askin' if you have questions.”

“About Treville, not about Treville's son,” Aramis says, quickly. “Because that's his business. I have a question about seeing him. Will there be visiting hours, and will he be up for that?”

Porthos looks uncertain, then frowns.

“I didn' ask,” Porthos says. “Sorry. I didn't think. I should find that out, right? When I can visit him. Um, maybe wait till tomorrow, or the next day?”

“You heard the man,” Athos says. “We can visit in two days time. The superintendent is on the mend, we know his condition is stable, he has his family with him. Let's go update people at the station, and go home.”

People disperse, leaving Aramis and Athos with Porthos.

“I should've thought to ask that,” Porthos mutters.

“We can find someone to ask now,” Aramis says. “We'd appreciate it if you updated someone tomorrow if there's any change, but of course that is up to you and only if you feel up to it.”

“That's okay,” Porthos says. “I can do that. Who should I tell?”

“Take Athos' number, he's the one who works with Treville most,” Aramis says. “People will be asking Athos anyway.”

“Whose… Are you Athos?” Porthos asks, turning to him.

“Yes,” Athos says. “You can call me Athos, too, if you like. Everyone does, de la Fère is a mouthful. Half the younger officers think my name is DCI Athos.”

Aramis smirks, and Athos is pretty sure Aramis has more than a hand in making that happen.

“Okay. I'll take your number, then. Um, he wasn't awake, when I saw him. I can tell you when he wakes up? If he says anything? Do you need to question him?” Porthos asks.

“No, that's alright. He won't be able to tell us anything that can't wait for a bit. If you'd like to let me know, I wouldn't be adverse to it,” Athos says.

They exchange numbers, and then Athos leaves Aramis to help Porthos find out about visiting, and other information that slipped Porthos' mind. Athos goes back to the station to see how the search for the shooter is going.

 

Athos takes flowers, when he goes to see Treville three days later. Aramis has already been, and DI Jenkins took grapes and came back with the report that Treville was awake and cursing them all and had sent a dire warning that if paperwork wasn't filed and correct there would be consequences. DS George Franks had placed a big hand on his heart and, pretending teariness, had said 'he knows us so well'. Everyone was filling in bad reports and filing them along with the good, and a collection had gone around to buy a swear jar and 'best boss ever' mug.

Athos is unsure what kind of state Treville will be in, but he's a little surprised and very glad to see him sitting up, mostly, against the raised head of the bed, awake and lucid. He's talking to Porthos, who's sat in a comfy looking chair, eating sweets and nodding. He rolls his eyes when he spots Athos and beckons him in.

“He's just lecturin' me about the proper feeding and care of his house plants,” Porthos says.

“It's important, Porthos,” Treville snaps. “Athos, please update me on the case. What on earth are those for?”

“They're for you,” Athos says, holding out the flowers, anticipation making it hard not to grin.

“What for? What use do I have for those? Put them in the bin or something,” Treville says, then perks up. “Oh, I can't have them. There are irises, Porthos is allergic.”

“Sorry,” Porthos says, looking honestly regretful about it. “There's a little old lady down the corridor who hasn't had any visitors, she'd probably like 'em.”

“If she gets them you won't be able to sneak off and see her any more,” Treville says. “Give them to the wanker in room next door.”

Porthos gets up and takes the flowers, shaking his head. He turns in the doorway and gives Treville a stern glare, then leaves. Athos sits on the hard plastic chair on the other side of the bed and gives Treville the crossword and sudoku books he brought.

“This is better,” Treville says.

Athos gives him the battered paperbacks too, just stuff from his shelves he thinks might catch Treville's attention.

“No grapes?” Treville asks. “Jenkins brought me grapes.”

Athos gives Treville the box of brownies, and packet of licorice allsorts.

“Okay, you win, you're still favourite,” Treville says. “Porthos loves brownies.”

He sounds a bit wistful, and Athos does not want to hear about family drama.

“We've got two suspects in for the shooting. I don't think either of them are likely,” Athos says.

They talk about the case for a while, then Treville yawns, grinning at Athos.

“I feel I should warn you. He'll tut and huff and probably not let you eat brownies,” Treville says.

“Is that what that look was?” Athos asks, smiling. “Alright. I'm sure I'll work it out. I still have a few things to look into. I did have one questions, sir.”

“Is it about Porthos? I know we've worked together a long time, now. I should have mentioned something, I suppose.”

“No, sir, that's your business. My question is about Louis Royal. Why is he on our radar so much? As far as I know, his business concerns are pretty innocuous.”

“It's more his business partners who are the problem. Richelieu and Rochefort.”

“Oh good,” Athos says. “They're both always so much fun to talk to.”

“How's everything else at the station? Other than the case?”

“Not a lot going on, it's been a quiet few days. George Franks fell down some stairs, but pretty much bounced and wasn't hurt. George Squires got news on his sergeants' exam, and is now DS Squires, and will transfer out, which means DC Constance Bonacieux will be on our roster.”

“Good. She's much better than Squires. What about the lad, d'Artagnan?”

“He's cross that Squires got to take the sergeants while we discouraged him from it. I did explain to him that we were trying to get rid of Squires, but he's taken the opportunity to sulk. I think Kitty has taken a fancy to him, and he's playing it up for the pastries.”

“The woman who comes round with cake and coffee?” Treville says, grinning. “Ah, I can see it now. Their wedding, their children. Any more gossip?”

“We've got a temp superintendent. They've brought Ninon in.”

“Oh, ouch. That must be awkward.”

“They asked if I was okay with it and I said fine. We only dated for a few months,” Athos says.

They work together sometimes, and Athos is sure it'll be okay. Short-term. She's probably best at her job, after possibly Treville.

“If the station explodes, I'll know where to look for the spark,” Treville says, yawning, wincing against it.

Porthos appears again, sans-flowers, looking a little runny-nosed and watery-eyed. Treville laughs, holding out a hand toward Porthos, who comes and takes it, giving Athos a sheepish smile.

“You took them to your nice old lady, didn't you?” Treville says. “You big sop. What am I going to do with you? Soft hearted thing.”

“She don't have people to bring 'er grapes an' crosswords an'- oh, brownies. Nice,” Porthos says.

“Alright. Take her all the irises you want. Take her brownies, too, if you like, baby.”

“Um, he's tired,” Porthos says, flushing a little, turning to Athos.

“I'll go,” Athos says, getting up and gathering his jacket. “I'll tell the guys you want gossip and chocolate.”

“See if you can't talk them out of whatever's on it's way after my grouchiness yesterday, I'm sure I have no need for whatever it is they're doing. See if you can do something about the paperwork, too?” Treville says.

“I don't know anything about any of that, sir,” Athos says, face blank.

“I'm going to go get coffee,” Porthos says. “You get some rest, okay? I expect to find you asleep when I come back.”

Treville beams fondly and proudly up at Porthos. Athos lets out an incredulous snort and gets a glare in return. Porthos follows Athos out, then gestures that Athos is to go with him for coffee. Athos goes.

“He seems well,” Athos says, once they have coffee and a table.

“Mm. He was lucky, and he's strong. He'll heal up okay,” Porthos says.

“Why are we getting coffee?” Athos says, having reached the end of his small talk. He's not good at small talk.

“I don't… I only have leave till the end of the week,” Porthos says. “I was supposed to go back yesterday, they gave me an extra week on compassionate grounds. When I go back I'm shipping out, I'll be in Afghanistan for three months after that.”

“We can keep an eye on him for you,” Athos says.

“I know that,” Porthos says, waving it away. He sighs. “He'll lie to me. If he's bad, or something happens, or anything, he'll lie. He thinks it's too dangerous for me to get bad news out there. Can I give you my email? I know I'm askin' you to get in the middle of your boss's relationship, and you should just say no, but I need to know that if something happens that I should be aware of, I have a better chance of hearin'. I came home from deployment once and found… I prefer to know. He prefers me not to know.”

“Is it dangerous, for you to get bad news?” Athos asks.

“Not really. I'm just trainin' people, mostly. I mean, there's been stuff happening, like in Lahore, but I'm not going to be in Lahore and, yeah.”

“I'm not sure about getting in the middle, like you say,” Athos says.

“Okay,” Porthos says. “I had to ask. I didn't want to ask the other people who came, they were very deferential to 'im.”

“Was I not?”

“You brought 'im flowers. He hates people bringing him flowers. He thinks it's pointless. Which you know,” Porthos says, softly, smiling.

“Oh.”

“Well, thank you for listening to my request at least.”

“You know what? Go on. Give me your address. I'm not promising anything, but if something comes up… I can always just tell you how well he's doing, too.”

“Yeah. He'll probably just tell me he's 'fine',” Porthos says.

Athos takes Porthos' email address, and goes back to work.

 

Athos goes to visit Treville on Friday, as well. This time Porthos is stretched out beside Treville, sleeping. Treville presses a finger to his lips and Athos closes the door quietly, unpacking his offerings carefully. He's got more puzzle books, and some fudge. There are also home-made carrot cupcakes from Constance.

“How are you, sir?” Athos whispers.

“Fine,” Treville says, in a normal voice. “He sleeps like the dead, don't worry. I just didn't want you yelling or something.”

“Do I yell?”

“Not often. DC Bonacieux ready to join us?”

“Yes sir. Squires is leaving next month, Bonacieux will come up in a few weeks to shadow him a bit. I suggested she shadow d'Artagnan and Franks, but Laroque pointed out she'll be working with Jenkins and should get a feel for that.”

“Hmph, good. Aramis was here this morning, he told me all the gossip. He always knows more than you. So tell me about the case.”

Athos does, updating him on their considerable progress, feet up on the bed, making his way through the fudge. He likes fudge, and he's pretty sure Treville doesn't. Athos asks if Porthos does, but Treville just shakes his head, so Athos eats pretty much all of it as he works the case through for Treville.

“Are you talkin' work, 'gain?” Porthos murmurs, shifting sleepily.

Treville smiles, resting a hand on Porthos' chest.

“Sorry, love,” Treville says. “Athos came by without gossip.”

“Did 'e bring flowers?” Porthos mumbles, sitting up and scrubbing his face. “I fell asleep?”

“No, no flowers. Yes you fell asleep. You needed it, clearly,” Treville says.

“Mm. Maybe I was jus' bored,” Porthos says, yawning, rubbing at his eyes.

“You're tired. I'm not sure you should be going back to work, so tired. Are you sure they won't give you more time to rest?” Treville says.

“It's fine, I'm fine. I have asked. A week's enough, though, especially now you'll be okay. I'm gonna be fine.”

“Yes, you always say that,” Treville says.

“Still here, aren't I?”

“Just.”

Athos clears his throat, and Treville grimaces an apology. The rest of the visit they talk about sports. Porthos rolls his eyes about that and goes lumbering off somewhere, but he returns quickly this time, stretching himself out beside Treville again and going back to sleep. Treville frowns, sighing, and rests his hand on Porthos' forehead. Athos leaves, feeling like he's intruding.

 

Athos does end up emailing Porthos. When Treville goes home, when Treville starts doing work from home (Porthos must do something about that, because it stops), when Treville starts getting around more on his own. Athos tells Treville he's doing it, and Treville doesn't exactly say to stop. Porthos emails back, too. Smilies first, pretty exclusively, until Athos complains about them. Then there's a profusion of smilies and a few words buried among them.

Then Porthos starts actually emailing back. The first time, Athos is at work and opens it, expecting a slew of the annoying yellow faces. Instead, there are solid blocks of text, paragraph after paragraph, detailing how bored Porthos is, how hot it is, how much sand there is, how annoying Porthos' sargeant is, how much paperwork he's stuck doing. How much running he has to do. Lots and lots of complaints. There are lots of spelling mistakes and typos, but Porthos is funny, and Athos forgives more and more as he reads on and finds himself wanting to actually laugh out loud.

“Sir?” d'Artagnan says, leaning in the doorway. “Can you take a look at this? It just came in.”

“What is it?” Athos says, clicking away and focussing back on work.

Athos emails back, answering some of the complaints, making a few of his own, telling Porthos about the grey drizzle that won't let up. Athos actually likes it, which he admits, because it makes the streets less busy. After that, Porthos seems to realise Athos is open to it and emails fairly regularly, about his life, about the men he's serving with (they are all men, Porthos tells Athos), about the men they're training. Athos still updates Porthos on Treville's recovery, and finds himself spending more time with Treville so he can do a better job.

“As much as I like your company, is this something to do with my son?” Treville asks, one evening.

Athos doesn't reply, too embarrassed at being caught out. Treville sighs.

“I'm glad he's made a friend, I suppose,” Treville says. Athos raises his eyebrows. “What? Parents aren't always age-appropriate. We always see them as young. About four or five. Babies.”

“Yes, sir,” Athos says.

“I met Porthos when he was four. His mother asked me for help, and I sent her money, but that was it. She didn't show up in person until he was six. I didn't know what she was doing, just thought she needed other kinds of support. I was happy to provide, Porthos was a lovely child. I looked after him a lot. Then, she told me she was dying, and wanted me to look after him, had been training me up. And then, she died, and it was just… me and him.”

“I didn't know any of that, sir,” Athos says.

“No? Porthos doesn't talk about it much, I guess. It's painful for him.”

“Why don't you talk about him, sir?”

“I… never meant not to. I have a photo or two in my office. I think people make the assumption that he isn't mine. I'm not really quite old enough to be his father, I'm only about eighteen years older than him. And then, well. He's not inherited my skin tone, exactly.”

“So people assume.”

“It's also a complicated situation, and I don't really want to share most of it. The reason his mother asked me for help is something I'm very ashamed of. I'm part of the reason she needed help in the first place. There's a lot to it, really.”

Athos emails Porthos, later, and tells him Treville talked about his mother. Porthos doesn't email for a week, and Athos thinks he did something wrong, talking to Treville behind Porthos' back, though he hadn't meant to. Then Porthos sends him an email that's pages long, an outpouring of grief that begins with 'I thought he never talked about me', and runs through to 'and that's why I joined the army'. There's a lot in between, but the end sticks with Athos.

_I thought that I had exhausted every possibility of gaining his respect, I thought that I had destroyed his good opinion of me. I thought that he would have to be ashamed all his life when people looked at me, a school drop out with a juvie record. I needed something that would earn me back my respect for myself, and his respect for me, and allow me to do something with my life. I thought it was a good thing to do. And that's why I joined the army._

Athos imagines Porthos, seventeen, leaving Treville with just a note, striding off to do the right thing and make himself into something better. Athos feels the pain of it, lodged beneath his ribs. He sends an email back, as long as he can make it. Usually he is a man of few words, even written ones. He makes the effort to do better, for Porthos.

 

Athos is at Treville's one evening, about a month later, watching football. Treville's been back at work for three days and Athos brought him home, because he'd seemed to be in pain. They're sipping beer, and Athos is getting a few hours off work, leaving early. It's good, really, and he's feeling mellow. Then the doorbell goes.

“Who's that?” Treville asks.

Athos raises an eyebrow, feeling that conveys everything: this is not my house, I cannot see through doors and walls, how am I meant to know? Treville just gives him an expectant look back. Athos goes to answer the door. Porthos is on the other side, in uniform, with a backpack and duffel. He looks startled, then grins, taking off his cap.

“Hello,” Athos says.

“Got a couple days,” Porthos says. “Just three. Is Dad here?”

Athos nods and opens the door to let him in. Porthos dumps his stuff in the hall and goes through to the livingroom, and Athos gets to witness Treville getting teary and hugging Porthos hard and laughing.

“What are you doing here?” Treville asks, pulling back.

“Comin' to visit, see how you're doin',” Porthos says. “You look better.”

“You saw me via Skype just two days ago,” Treville says.

“Yeah, but last time I saw you properly you were still in hospital. Are you properly healin'? Can I look?”

“Later,” Treville says. “If it will set your mind at rest. Have you eaten? Take your boots off, you can't wear those inside. Is work alright? Not too bad, this time? Your hair's shorter. Did you talk to that Captain about the supplies issue?”

“Dad, Dad. Too many questions. Was there an offer of food somewhere in there?” Porthos says.

“Yes. Athos is going to cook,” Treville says.

Athos raises a hand in acceptance, and goes to look through the kitchen cupboards. He's started making rice and daal when Porthos wanders in. He's still in the uniform trousers, but he's got his socks instead of boots, and a woollen jumper instead of the shirt. He hoiks himself up onto the counter and watches Athos cook.

“You didn't change your trousers?” Athos says, after groping for small talk for a while.

“Nah. The DPM annoys Dad,” Porthos says. He catches Athos trying to work that out, and expands. “Disruptive Pattern Material.”

“Oh.”

“What are you cooking? Rice? How's your work going? Did you catch the shooter?”

“We caught him,” Athos says, with some satisfaction, ignoring the rest.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Did you want me to tell you over email? I didn't think to.”

“No, you said it was nothing to do with Dad. I'm glad he's caught.”

“He was the ex of the bride from the wedding,” Athos says. “He was not the brightest spoon in the drawer.”

“Thank you. I feel better about it all knowing he's caught, and that he definitely wasn't aiming at Dad. It wasn't about his work. Well, not really.”

Athos nods. Porthos crowds him away from the stove and examines everything Athos is doing, then sends him back into the livingroom with more beer. Treville accepts the bottle and smiles, laughing.

“Banished from the kitchen, huh? Porthos likes cooking. I didn't know how far you'd get,” Treville says.

“He's...” Athos says, trying to put into words how odd he finds Porthos sometimes.

“Isn't he?” Treville says. “It's wonderful. I keep hoping he'll give up on the army, do something safe with that brain of his, but he likes it. Despite complaints. He likes the skills he learns and uses, and he likes being useful.”

“Stop talkin' about me!” Porthos calls. “I can hear you!”

“Sorry,” Treville calls back. “I'll lower my voice!”

Porthos laughs, loud and rowdy. Treville smiles at Athos, and Athos doesn't know how he ever thought he knew anything about Treville before this. It's like there's a whole other dimension to the man. A soft, fond, impossibly in love side of him. Treville is clearly one of those parents who loves whole-heartedly. And Porthos very obviously returns the sentiment. He wanders in now and then to check on them, bringing Treville little things- bits of food, a cup of tea, a glass of water, a joke. It makes Athos smile.

“Stop it,” Treville says, eventually, catching Athos at it. “It is not adorable.”

“It is,” Athos says. “He's like a child, bringing all the things he finds to show you and get your approval.”

“Oh. I thought that was about me. Yes, he is adorable, I suppose.”

“It is about both of you,” Athos says.

Porthos comes in again, then, with a tray. He lays things out on the coffee table, then pauses to yawn so widely he nearly tips over. Treville laughs, starting to get up.

“Don' you dare,” Porthos growls, pointing a stern finger at him. “You're tired and have over done it. Stay. I'm fine, I just yawned.”

“Tried to swallow a ship more like,” Treville says, but he stays where he is.

They eat quietly, and Porthos falls asleep before he finishes eating. He snores. Loudly. Treville laughs about it, then instructs Athos to get Porthos lying on his side, and the snoring mostly subsides. Athos does the dishes and clears up the kitchen, though Porthos has left it mostly clean and tidy. He makes sure Treville takes his meds, then leaves them to it.

 

Athos goes back the next day, when Treville doesn't come in to work. He's hoping that Porthos is there, and sure enough it's Porthos who opens the door, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers with little TARDISes on.

“Oh. Hullo. Sorry, thought it'd be pizza,” Porthos says.

“You were planning on opening the door to the pizza delivery half naked, but if you'd known it was me you'd have put clothes on?” Athos asks.

“I don't have to ever see the pizza people again, do I? Them thinkin' I'm weird has no effect on me life,” Porthos says. “You comin' in? There's enough pizza. Dad's sleeping, I think.”

“Why are you naked?” Athos asks, stepping into the hall and shutting the door, removing his shoes.

“Had a shower. Went for a run. Not in that order,” Porthos says. “Um, come in the kitchen and we'll shut the door, try not to bother Dad.”

There's a knock on the door and Porthos heads back, taking in three big pizza boxes. He dumps them on the kitchen table, puts the kettle on and indicates a chair, then leaves Athos alone. Athos investigates the pizza boxes, helping himself to a slice with pepperoni. Porthos grins at him when he finds Athos on his second slice.

“Hungry,” Athos says, shrugging.

Porthos gives him a plate and a glass of water, then joins him. They eat the majority of two pizzas, and then exchange a look and start in on the third. They finish that, too. Treville comes in and finds them lying on the kitchen floor, groaning, Porthos laughing every few minutes.

“Hello, Athos. What are you two doing?” Treville says.

“We ate all three pizzas,” Porthos says, moaning. “Me stomach hurts. I'm so full. It was so good.”

“Thank you for dinner, sir,” Athos says.

“Jesus, Porthos,” Treville says, sighing. “You're going to be throwing up all night. You told me you were getting one pizza and would eat one slice, not that you were going to plough through three.”

“I have an intolerance to lactose,” Porthos says, grinning.

Treville shakes his head and steps around them, making himself some pasta. He makes Porthos a cup of peppermint tea, and Athos coffee, too, and they get up to the table to drink it. Treville shepherds them through to the living-room after, putting on the TV. Porthos groans and lies on the sofa, head on Treville's thigh, and Treville rubs his stomach.

“You're such an idiot,” Treville says, gently.

“I love pizza,” Porthos says. “No regrets.”

“You'll regret it in the morning when you have to leave at six am after not sleeping and puking all night,” Treville says.

“Not a single regret,” Porthos says, grinning at Athos.

“I am not an accomplice in this,” Athos says. “I had no idea you were lactose intolerant and shouldn't eat pizza.”

“I should eat pizza,” Porthos says.

“How's your tummy?” Treville asks, tapping Porthos' cheek to get his attention. Porthos grimaces, and Treville sighs. “Stupid twat. Okay. Let me know when you start feeling sick, I'd rather not be vomited on.”

“You'll forgive me, though, when it happens, right?” Porthos says.

“When? If. And no, I won't,” Treville says. “Athos, there's a bucket in the cleaning cupboard. If you would?”

Athos gets the bucket. He stays until Porthos actually throws up, by which time Porthos is quite miserable. He checks Treville doesn't need his aid, then leaves him to care for Porthos.

 

They go back to emailing, for a while, after that. Treville heals and comes back full time, Ninon going back to her own job. A month later the emails trickle through slower, and then stop all together. Athos sends a few of his own, then accepts that whatever that was is over and gets on with life and work.

“Athos!” Treville yells, one day, as Athos passes his office. Athos ducks in and takes a seat. “Have you heard from Porthos, recently?”

“Um, no, sir,” Athos says.

“Me either. Damn it. Fucking damn it. I haven't heard from him in a week, and before that it was always brief. Which means he was doing more than sitting on his arse and training people. Which means he's probably-” Treville stops talking and takes a deep breath. “You're sure you haven't had anything? Did you check your emails today?”

“Yes, I'm sorry. I check every day. My emails, not for something from Porthos. Um. I'm sure he's alright?” Athos offers.

“Yeah, thanks. I'm sure he is, too. He'll be alright, but whether he's well? Or safe? Or happy? All those things you want for your kids. Ah, damn it.”

“Let me know if you need anything, or hear anything, sir,” Athos says.

He leaves Treville pacing, and goes back to his own office. It's not until the next day that Treville comes rushing in, interrupting Athos and d'Artagnan going over a case. He sends d'Artagnan away with a few brisk, sharp words, and then leans on the back of the chair.

“Porthos,” Treville says. “He's hurt. He's not dead. I'm flying out, to the hospital there. Tomorrow. Earliest I can go. Then I'll bring him home, as soon as possible.”

“Oh,” Athos says.

“He's going to be okay,” Treville says. “Took them a while to get him back to a proper hospital with proper communications. Who knows what the fuck he was doing. I knew- never mind. I don't know much about the extent of his injuries. Will you help?”

“Help?”

“He'll be in hospital, at first, when he gets back. Then he'll need to stay with me. My flat's not exactly great for that, and his is worse. Can you find me a flat to rent? Ground floor, accessible? We'll know for what when I see him later. I don't know. He liked you.”

“Whatever you need,” Athos says.

“I'll tell him you send your love,” Treville says, running out of the office again.

Athos gets an email from Treville, the next day, with a list of Porthos' injuries and what sort of things the flat needs to have. The list is extensive. Broken ribs, broken arm, gunshot wound to the thigh, torn ACL, concussion, GSW to the shoulder. Athos starts looking for a flat.

 

The first time Athos sees Porthos is two weeks later, in the hospital. He's asleep, thinner than Athos remembers, hair shaved off, arm-cast over the covers. There are bandages around his other wrist, too. Treville shrugs when Athos asks, saying something about hurting himself fighting the doctors. Porthos is kept in for another four days, and then he's allowed to go home, equipped with a rented wheelchair, crutches, a rehab schedule, several appointments, and a lot of medication.

Athos drives to the hospital to pick him and Treville up, and sees Porthos awake for the first time in months. Porthos looks unsurprised to see him, and very pleased. He's sat on the edge of the bed, Treville knelt at his feet getting him into shoes and socks. Porthos smiles at Athos, and Athos grins back.

“Hey,” Porthos says, hoarse and soft.

“Hello,” Athos says.

“Porthos, stop moving your fucking feet or I'll leave these undone and you can trip over your laces,” Treville snaps. “Athos. Thank god. He's a nightmare.”

“I wanna go,” Porthos whines, moving his feet again.

Treville grabs the left one, pulls it to his thigh and holds it there forcibly, tying the laces. The whole thing looks practised, and Athos is willing to bet good money on Porthos being a restless child who had to be forced to put on shoes and coat before he ran off. Treville repeats the exercise with the right foot, then straightens with a wince.

“Dad?” Porthos asks, biting his lip.

“Hush, I'm fine. Just stiff and tired. He's high,” Treville says, the last to Athos.

They get Porthos home, but when Treville wheels him in, Porthos freaks out about the flat being unfamiliar and starts to cry. Athos retreats to the kitchen, making soup. Treville comes in half an hour later, sighing, leaning on the counter.

“Sir?” Athos says.

“Tomato? He likes tomato soup,” Treville says.

“I know. He told me.”

“Thank you. I know you don't really know each other that well.”

“We know each other well enough. Besides, I know you,” Athos says.

“He's alright,” Treville says. “Just tired, unhappy, uncomfortable. The medication makes him a bit… and then he's a bit… I still don't know what happened, did I tell you that? He just said it was a firefight and that he fell, but have you seen him? He's like one big bruise, and he's about a quarter of the weight he was.”

“You think he's lying?” Athos asks.

“No. Well, yes, but I think he was doing something he's not allowed to tell me about. It wouldn't be the first time. Porthos is quick, intelligent, strategic. There's only so long someone like him can be in the army before they make use of his ability and desire to pick up skills here there and everywhere.”

“Oh.”

“I think he'll be alright,” Treville says.

“Daddy?” Porthos calls, from the living-room, wavering, still hoarse.

“Right. That's me,” Treville says.

He goes back to the living-room. Athos finishes the soup and serves two bowls, makes some toast, and takes it through on a tray along with a bottle of water. Porthos is on the sofa, propped up with cushions, covered with a duvet. He's clutching Treville's arm with his good hand, head pressed to Treville's shoulder.

“Hush, Porthos, it's alright. It's just Athos,” Treville says.

“I'll leave this and then get going,” Athos says.

“Maybe that'd be best. Sorry,” Treville says.

“Athos?” Porthos says. “Athos is here?”

“Yes,” Treville says. “He made you tomato soup. And… toast.”

“I like soup and toast. Does it have cream in?”

“No. Free from anything lactose-y,” Athos says. “I did the shopping. Everything in the house is lactose free.”

“Daddy?” Porthos whispers.

“I'm right here, love. You're holding on plenty tight, I'm not going anywhere. Not going anywhere anyway,” Treville says.

“'kay. You should go see Athos off, polite like,” Porthos says. “But come right back.”

“I promise. Athos can see himself out,” Treville says.

“No. You do it,” Porthos says. “Then come straight back to me.”

Treville shrugs and gets to his feet, and they walk to the door together.

“I hate when he calls me 'Daddy',” Treville says, softly, leaning in the doorway.

“He seems...”

“Yeah.”

“Let me know when it'll be better to visit, and if you need anything. There are things to heat up in the freezer, and Connie left some sweet things in the cupboard over the sink.”

“Alright. Thanks, Athos,” Treville says.

Athos waves, and heads back to work.

 

A few days later, Treville texts Athos to ask him to stock up on puzzle books, because he's going stir crazy. Athos starts a collection of films and books at the office, and when he goes over he has a crate full of books, films and puzzles, and another crate full of baked-goods and food offerings. There's a card from everyone, too.

“He's not so high today,” Treville says, coming and opening the door for Athos. “In pain, though. If-”

“I'm fine, go on,” Athos says.

Treville nods and goes back to the bedroom. Athos dumps one crate in the living-room, the other in the kitchen, then sets about filling the freezer. He labelled everything before he brought it over, and made a list of who made what in case Treville wants it. He also has two files for Treville to look over, and some case updates he's supposed to pass on, so he makes himself a cup of coffee and sits in the living-room, reading the copy of Mrs Dalloway someone dropped in the crate.

Treville comes out with Porthos, twenty minutes later. Porthos is on his feet, leaning on a crutch with his good arm, Treville supporting him carefully on the other side. They hobble to the couch and Treville gets cushions to prop bits of Porthos up.

“Hey Athos. Dad said you were here,” Porthos says, breathless, when he's settled. “Right mess I am, eh?”

“I brought food,” Athos says. “Most of it's in the freezer. Lots of people made things.”

He shoves the list at Treville, who runs his eye over it before disappearing into the kitchen. He comes back with a piece of brownie on a plate, which he sets before Porthos.

“It's lactose free,” Athos says. “Everything is.”

“He eats brownies anyway,” Treville says. “But thank you. Alright, Porthos?”

“Mm. I'm fine,” Porthos says, breaking a bit off and eating, a smile spreading over his face. “This is good.”

“Good. You cannot live on cake alone, but for now I'll take what I can get,” Treville says. “I'm going to have a shower and go for a walk, while you have Athos here and are relatively happy.”

“'kay,” Porthos says. “Don' worry, Athos. I won't die on you or freak out or anything.”

“He might freak out,” Treville says. “If he does, just leave him to it, he'll sort himself out usually. If he doesn't, I'll take my phone so you can call me. I won't go far.”

Athos nods, Treville nods, and then Athos is alone with Porthos.

“I was gonna ask you out for a drink, when I got home,” Porthos says, when the shower goes on. “Now you just see me upset about Dad, then fussing over him, then like this. I wish I made a better impression.”

“You're just fine,” Athos says. “When you're better, would you like to go for a glass of wine, maybe dinner?”

“Oh,” Porthos says, then grins, nodding. “Yeah. I'd like to.”

“Then we will do that.”

Porthos' grin sticks around for a while, as he finishes the piece of brownie. He lies, afterwards, listless. His eyes track around the room, resting on Athos now and then. When he sees Athos he smiles, each time. It's gratifying. If a little strange. Athos doesn't mind the quiet, he skims the book, thinks about his cases, and is perfectly content. Treville waves as he passes on his way out.

“Dad's worried about me,” Porthos says. “I'm fine.”

“Alright,” Athos says.

“About me 'state of mind',” Porthos says, grinning. “I'm fine.”

“As you say,” Athos says.

Porthos makes a few more random comments, then falls asleep, snoring. Athos doesn't try to move him, in case it hurts. There's a slight wheeze on the tail end of the snores, and Porthos' cheeks look flushed. Athos wanders to the bathroom to look for a thermometer to check Porthos' temperature. He leaves it until Porthos wakes again, though, reading the rest of Mrs Dalloway.

 

“Hello? Anyone home?” Athos asks, walking into the hall a week later. “The door was open. I have more stuff from the station, everyone keeps on giving you stuff, Porthos!”

There's no answer. Athos puts the bag he's got in the kitchen, and wanders through the house. He glances out the window, and smiles. He goes out the back, to join Porthos sat on the bench out in the garden. Porthos has a blanket around him. He looks a little better than a week ago, a little healthier.

“Hi,” Porthos says, smiling, not looking at Athos.

“What are you watching?” Athos asks, trying to follow Porthos' sight-line.

“Hmm. Nothing,” Porthos says. “I'm a bit high.”

He turns to Athos, smile going crooked. Athos frowns. Before, Porthos' cheeks had plumped up when he grinned. Now he looks almost haggard. Treville said he was thinner, and Athos had noticed, but it's the first time it's really struck him.

“What?” Porthos asks, shifting. “Have I got sommat on my face?”

“No. Never mind,” Athos says, shaking his head. “Constance sent more brownies. d'Artagnan says if you keep getting through them at this rate you'll be spherical. George Franks sent you a stuffed cow with a comically large udder. I decided you probably didn't need that.”

“Aw, it sounds fun,” Porthos says.

“You can have it, if you like. I left it in the car.”

“Yeah. I'd like it. Who's George Franks?”

“DS Franks. He thinks he's a comedian. He's accident prone.”

“Oh, is he the one who walked in on a robbery, and managed to get stabbed even though no one had a knife?” Porthos asks. “Yep, Dad talks about him, sometimes. He calls him the chaos-muppet.”

Athos laughs, closing his eyes and bending a little with it. When he looks at Porthos again, Porthos is giving him a bemused, warm smile.

“What?” Athos says.

“You just laughed. Never seen you do that before. It was beautiful. It was completely silent, all kept inside like,” Porthos says, softly, reaching out.

Athos wants to duck away, embarrassed, but he stays still. Porthos' fingers touch his cheek and rest there, then they move down, until Porthos is cupping his face, big palm warm. He doesn't do anything else, just holds Athos' face in his hand, examining him with that warm, gentle look.

“You're beautiful,” Porthos whispers.

“Porthos? Where are you?” Treville calls. “Porthos!”

“Can you yell? My throat hurts,” Porthos says, pulling away, leaning back on the bench.

“Treville,” Athos tries. He has to clear the roughness away and try a second time. “In the garden, sir!”

Treville comes out, a Tesco bag in one hand. He spots them, smiles, and disappears back inside. He pops out again after less than five minutes, with a brownie on a plate. Porthos makes a pleased sound as it's given to him with a flourish.

“I'm a terrible father. You should be eating healthy things, and building up your strength, and here I am just feeding you chocolate,” Treville says.

“Mmph,” Porthos agrees, around a mouthful. “Terri'le.”

“Love you, buttons,” Treville says, leaving them again. “Coffee Athos?”

“Please,” Athos says.

They sit quietly for a while, and Treville brings them coffee. He brings Porthos juice, and a healthy looking salad. Porthos ignores the salad.

“You're beautiful, too,” Athos says, right in front of Treville, sort of unable to stop himself.

Porthos has his head back, lit by the sun, golden, glowing, skin a healthy warm brown. He's smiling, soft and happy. He looks so contended. So peaceful. So beautiful. Athos just gazes at him.

“Right. I'm off, then,” Treville says, getting to his feet and hurrying inside. “Don't stay out too long, you need to rest, Porthos.”

Porthos just turns his head to smile at Athos, not opening his eyes. He waits, and Athos wonders what for. Porthos cradles his face again, drawing him closer, this time. Closer and closer, until they're nearly touching, until he can feel Porthos' steady breathing on his face. Athos catches on, and closes the last bit of space on his own, pressing his lips to Porthos', kissing him. It's long, slow, and, at first, incredibly gentle. It gets less so as it goes on. They have to pause to breathe, but Porthos at once gets back to it.

“Oh God, Athos,” Porthos whispers, then kisses him again. “This is good.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “Stop talking.”

Porthos laughs, and he's not silent about it. There's nothing contained about Porthos' laughter. Athos holds him still, both hands holding his head in place, and kisses him until his mirth stops, until they're both breathless, until Porthos coughs.

“Oh, ow,” Porthos says. “Ow.”

“What is it?” Athos asks.

“Thigh. Sorry. Just hurts. Give me a sec,” Porthos says, grimacing. “Mm. Muscle spasm.”

Athos squeezes his neck, and they wait it out until Porthos can breathe evenly again.

“Let me help you inside. Your Dad's right- you need to rest,” Athos says.

“Not sure I can get to me feet. My shoulder hurts, too.”

Athos helps him, steadies him, and then calls Treville. Between them they get him to the sofa, propped up and supported by cushions. Porthos catches Athos' hand when Athos tries to leave. Treville snorts, half way out of the room in search of pain meds.

“I need my hand,” Athos says. “Also, your Dad is my boss. This is awkward.”

“Shut up,” Porthos grits out, eyes opening to slits. “Tell me about your priest. How is your priest?”

“Who?”

“Aramis. Take my mind off it. Tell me whatever you like, I don't care.”

“Aramis? Okay,” Athos says, and sets about filling Porthos in on all the stupid things Aramis has done, and all the un-priestly things he does most days, and how ridiculous he is.

 

Porthos heals slowly. Athos sees him after rehab once or twice, and he's so pale and shaky and hurt that Athos can barely stand it. A fever that comes and goes, along with the crescendos of pain. Treville takes another month off work, and Ninon fills his position again. Athos comes and goes, bringing offerings from the station, gossip and puzzles for Treville, and, after discovering Porthos likes them, old Doctor Who DVDs. He has the entirety of each season, but he brings them to Porthos one by one. He brings two, once, and Porthos cries. He's quite high at the time and overwhelmed anyway, but still.

“I don't know what to do with him. He's finally in less pain, but he's so damned bored and he's driving me mad,” Treville says, one day.

He's sitting in Athos' office, picking through case files. Athos would bet he's bored, too. d'Artagnan comes wandering in with lunch, dropping an offering on the desk for Athos then taking the second guest chair and putting his feet up. Treville watches him, eyebrows raised.

“He does this,” Athos says. “I ignore it.”

“Right,” Treville says. “So, are you coming to entertain my wayward son?”

“No. I'm working, I have three cases to wrap up,” Athos says.

“Tomorrow?” Treville says.

“Tomorrow I'm in court,” Athos says. “What am I meant to do, anyway?”

“I don't know, he likes you,” Treville says. “Kiss him or something. Just stop the whining, and the thunking about the house with a crutch tripping over things, and the baking attempts, and the cooking. We have so much food!”

“Doesn't Porthos eat a fair amount of it?” d'Artagnan says. “He seems to get through brownies like nobody's business.”

“He would, usually. He's mostly just cooking, these days,” Treville says, frowning. “He pretty much eats brownies.”

“He was eating strawberries last time I was there,” Athos says. “Try giving him fruit.”

“Oh,” Treville says, then beams. “Great idea, he used to love that, when he was little and poorly. I'll go to Waitrose and get some, we've only got apples. Right, you're definitely coming to visit, you're useful. Come the day after court.”

Treville leaves before Athos can protest. d'Artagnan starts to laugh, and can't seem to stop. He's still at it when Aramis wanders in, taking the recently vacated chair, eating his own lunch. He asks what's up with d'Artagnan but Athos can only shrug. They eat, waiting for d'Artagnan to get hold of himself.

“Oh, god, he's completely and totally your mother in law,” d'Artagnan says, still laughing.

“Do shut up,” Athos grumbles, throwing a ball of paper at d'Artagnan's head.

He does go visit Porthos, though, and he takes a lot of fruit. Porthos is up and about, shuffling around the house in an awkward, limping gait, leaning on his crutch with his good arm. He hugs Athos on his way from the kitchen to the bathroom, as Athos ducks into the kitchen to dump the stuff he brought.

“Is Treville in?” Athos calls.

“Went to… something,” Porthos calls back. “Fuck! Ow!”

Athos goes to see if he's okay, and finds him with the bathroom door open, trousers open, leaning on the wall. Athos shuts his eyes.

“Oh for fuck's sake, stop being an idiot and help me,” Porthos says.

“Help you?” Athos squeaks.

“God, ow, my leg. Fucking muscle spasms. C'mere.”

Athos goes, not opening his eyes, and Porthos' weight settles across his shoulders. Athos holds him steady and listens to him pissing, Porthos sighing in contented relief.

“You still got your eyes shut?” Porthos asks, chuckling. “Wanker. I'm done, all decent again.”

Athos opens his eyes carefully, but Porthos isn't lying. Athos helps him over to the sink to wash his hands, then to the sofa to rest. Porthos rubs his thigh, grimacing. His foot twitches, which makes him breathe tight and fast, holding his knee.

“Easy,” Athos says, pushing his hands away, kneeling, massaging the muscles until they relax. He looks up, when he's done, and Porthos is looking down at him, eyes a little wide, mouth open, breathing still quick.

“Sorry,” Porthos mutters. “You're lovely.”

Porthos shifts, hiding his lap. Athos looks away, flushing, and gets to his feet, hurrying to the kitchen to get Porthos a bowl of fruit. When he gets back Porthos seems to have got hold of himself, and is no longer trying to shield his crotch from view. He picks at the fruit listlessly, then pushes it away.

“Any of them brownies left?” Porthos asks.

“No,” Athos says. “Not if you're not going to eat the healthy stuff.”

“I feel ill,” Porthos whines.

“Your Dad might indulge that, but I don't feel like it. Eat the fruit, and maybe I'll find something else for you,” Athos says, picking a magazine up off the table. The coffee table in here is always littered with books, magazines, newspapers and puzzle books these days.

Porthos grumbles, whines, and then tugs the bowl back towards him, sharp and irritable. Athos ignores him until he actually eats most of the fruit.

“Now can I have a brownie?” Porthos asks, showing Athos the kiwi slices left in the bottom of the bowl. “I don't like these.”

“Kiwi? Really? It's so innocuous,” Athos says, ignoring the question about cake.

Athos takes the bowl away, and searches through the kitchen cupboards. Porthos is still far too thin, and from what Treville says, he's not eating much. Athos thinks, considering his options, then makes up a plate of small bite-size things. Some salmon, some toast squares, some cucumber. Just things he thinks look colourful and might appeal.

“Chocolate?” Porthos asks, looking hopefully up. His face falls into disappointment when he sees the plate. “Oh.”

“Snacks,” Athos says, sitting next to Porthos, stretching his legs out, feet up. He puts on the TV, and chews contemplatively on some bell-pepper, leaving the plate between them, carefully ignoring Porthos.

Porthos eats most of what's there, then curls into the arm of the sofa, looking utterly miserable. Athos takes the plate away and comes back to sit beside him, rubbing his back. Porthos leans into his side, face drawn and tired.

“Thank you,” Athos says, brushing Porthos' hair away from his face. It's a little matted, and feels a little dirty. Athos frowns. “You been looking after yourself?”

“Dad doesn't know how to do it properly,” Porthos says, pulling his head away so Athos can't get at his hair. “Doesn't get the oils right.”

“And the food?”

“I don't want to talk. My throat hurts.”

Athos lets Porthos get away with that. He even gets him some brownie, later, when he's had a rest and starts making noises about being hungry. Porthos beams at him over cake and sucks the chocolate off his fingers, when he's done. Treville gets home and sees Porthos eating cake, and sighs heavily.

“Want me to tell him?” Athos asks.

“Nope,” Porthos says, looking a little gleeful.

Athos shrugs, deciding not to get in the middle of that. He decides to ignore, ignore, ignore.

 

Athos drops in quite regularly, after that, and coaxes Porthos into eating. Treville catches on, after a week, and absents himself whenever Athos turns up. Porthos likes soup, hates rice, manages pasta with a bit of fuss. He always eats best if Athos just tells him he has to, then ignores him until he does. He likes food he can eat with his fingers. He'll usually eat fish without a fuss.

“How do you do it?” Treville asks, back in Athos' office again.

“Do what?” Athos says, more interested in the board he's setting up than Treville.

“Get him to eat. He won't eat anything except chocolate, for me,” Treville says.

“Oh. Porthos. Who knows?” Athos says, shrugging. “He just does it. Try fish, he likes it.”

“Won't eat it, though,” Treville says.

Treville sticks around until Athos is done, three hours later. Athos drives him home and follows him in. Porthos is waiting, sitting on a kitchen chair in the hall, looking exhausted and unhappy. He gets up when Treville steps in and makes a strange, garbled sound of relief, stumbling into Treville's arms.

“Daddy,” Porthos says.

“Hey, hey, hush. What's this?” Treville asks, shifting to take Porthos' weight. “Bad dream?”

“Where did you go?” Porthos whispers. “You… there was a hospital, I was confused, and you were only going for a walk.”

“Oh crap, I'm sorry. I forgot,” Treville says, looking guilt-stricken. “I thought I told you I was going in to work for a few hours.”

Porthos shakes his head, clutching at Treville. Athos goes to the kitchen, making tea. Treville comes through ten minutes later, Porthos on his heels, clunking along with his crutch. Porthos comes over to Athos.

“Hungry?” Athos asks.

“Mm. Maybe. What's on offer?” Porthos asks.

“Soup? Fish?”

“Feeling a bit sick,” Porthos says. “Meds are kicking my arse today. Took something stronger than usual, I pushed it a bit far in rehab this morning.”

“Tell you what, Aramis heard you liked fruit and made applesauce. How does that sound?” Athos says.

“Apple sauce. Yeah, okay.”

“Maybe some toast.”

Porthos looks less sure about that, but he shrugs and gives both a good go. He eats most of the apple sauce, then rests his head on his good arm, on the table, and groans.

“Hmm?” Athos asks, eating the toast Porthos left.

“Hurts,” Porthos whispers.

“Your stomach?” Athos asks.

“No. Yes. Just everything.”

Athos helps him to his feet and guides him towards the sofa. Porthos gives his head a small shake, so Athos takes him to the bedroom. Athos hasn't been in Porthos' bedroom, not since he helped move everything in, not since Porthos arrived. It's dark, the curtains shut. The bed's unmade. It smells over-used, stuffy. Athos helps Porthos get comfortable before leaving him alone.

“You should go in with him,” Athos tells Treville.

“Yeah, probably. You got him to eat. Easily. You're magic,” Treville says.

“Just find what he feels good about, to offer him,” Athos says, shrugging.

Treville sighs, ducking into the bedroom.

 

Porthos gets better at eating. He starts to put on weight, and as the pain settles down, he starts to eat proper meals. He also starts leaving the house, and spending most of the day awake instead of napping. He's finally healing, and Treville starts smiling more often. Athos starts going over less, and Treville doesn't seek him out so often.

Athos is sitting in the briefing room, listening to Ninon assigning them cases, when his phone rings. He's halfway through a case already, so he ducks out to get the call. He frowns when he sees Treville's number, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong now.

“Sir?” Athos answers.

'Oh, how formal. Lovely. I like it,' Porthos says.

“Thought it was Treville,” Athos says.

'I'm disappointed. I thought I was gonna finally get some deference,' Porthos says.

“I'm at work, in the middle of a meeting,” Athos says, a little exasperated.

'Sorry. I was wonderin' if, um, if you still wanted to, um… you know. Go out some time. With me. On a date. With more 'a the kissing that we did? Haven't kissed you in ages.'

Ninon is beckoning him back in.

“Yes, alright, I have Friday off. Text me where and when, and what you want to do, and I'll turn up,” Athos says. “I have to go. Bye.”

Athos picks Porthos up at half past five, for dinner. Porthos grins at him, leaning on his crutch. He looks much better. Athos opens the car door for him, bowing slightly, and Porthos laughs, lowering himself to sit with less wincing and grimacing than usual. Athos goes around and pulls away.

“Good day?” Porthos asks.

“Yeah, I got things done. Laundry, cleaning,” Athos says.

“Wild. Sorry about the early thing, not up for much later than seven,” Porthos says.

“Oh, it's fine. We can do lunch, next time, if it's easier,” Athos says.

“Maybe. I like the idea of dinner, it seems more romantic, like.”

“You haven't as yet struck me as the romantic type. And I am certainly not.”

“A little bit is nice, though. Separate this as not friends, but somethin' else. You're ace, right? So there's not sex to do that, which is the culturally accepted go-to for differentiating friendship from romance.”

“How do you know I'm ace?” Athos asks.

“Didn't you mention it? In an email. You did. You sent me a whole lot, when I was… um… I got them when I was in the hospital,” Porthos says. “Couldn't email back, but I read 'em.”

“Oh. I forgot about that. Is it okay?”

“Sure. I'm not much for sex, anyway. Not really my thing.”

“Are you ace?”

“No. Just weird,” Porthos says, smiling. “I don't know, really. I don't dislike sex, I like it well enough, it's just never been a driving force for me. Not too bothered one way or the other. I like the way people look, and sometimes I get aroused from them, I guess, but it's just not really important to me.”

“We'll do fine, then,” Athos says. “I should have brought it up, perhaps. Consciously. Before accepting a date.”

“Nah, we're good,” Porthos says.

The date, it turns out, is less than romantic. Apparently early dinner means children. That along with the music being too loud and the noise from the open kitchen gives Porthos a headache, and has him twitching. They don't talk much, and they're both uncomfortable and a bit anxious. Afterwards, they wander back towards the car, Athos hunched in on himself.

“Well that was a disaster,” Porthos says cheerfully, laughing. “Slow down a bit, would you? Stop stropping.”

“I'm not stropping,” Athos says, slowing his pace.

“Better. You alright? You were as jumpy as me!”

“Just anxious,” Athos admits, shrugging.

“Okay. Home, or somewhere for ice cream and cake?”

“Home. You have cake there, and I put ice cream in the freezer a few days ago, have you eaten it already?”

“No, didn't know it was there.”

“Mm. Lactose free and everything. You alright?”

“Mm hmm,” Porthos says. “Car close?”

“Yeah, just here. Tired?”

“Bit.”

Athos takes him home, and convinces him to take a nap before desert. Athos leaves him to sleep for half an hour once he dozes off, then gets him cake and ice cream and sits beside him on the sofa, both their feet up on the coffee table. Porthos' bad leg is propped up with cushions, and he's sprawled bonelessly, leaning into Athos a bit. He makes appreciative noises over the food.

“Back to liking anything and everything?” Athos asks.

“Mm. Yup. I've started doing proper working out, too, not just the horrible rehab exercises. Some swimming, a bit of weights stuff, now my shoulder's better. Putting on a bit of muscle as well as just flab.”

“You have no flab whatsoever.”

“Would you still love me if I did?” Porthos says. Athos freezes, the 'l' word tripping off Porthos' tongue with such ease. Porthos gives him a curious, questioning look. Athos shakes his head. “What? What's the matter?”

“...love…?” Athos croaks, his bowl falling into his lap from nerveless fingers.

“Your ice cream's on your jeans,” Porthos says, taking the bowl away, pressing tissues to the spot. “It was just a throw away remark. Didn't mean anything by it.”

“Oh,” Athos says, inexplicably disappointed.

“I really like you, though. And maybe I'd go that far, if I didn't think you might freak out on me,” Porthos murmurs, wiping up the ice cream spill.

“Um, I don't mind what you look like,” Athos says, getting his bowl back to finish his desert.

“Okay. Alright, Athos. Whatever you want,” Porthos says. “How about kissing me, now?”

Athos gets on that.

 

“So, you and Porthos are officially an item,” Treville says.

Athos blinks at him. Treville, back at work for nearly a week, just called Athos into his office. Athos has his current case file with him, having expected to be asked about that. He's completely thrown.

“An… item?” Athos says, carefully.

“You're dating. He's your boyfriend. You kiss, you go for dinner, you take him to lunch, he comes and interrupts your work and drags you for coffee,” Treville says. “An item.”

“Oh. I suppose. I can ask him not to drop by at work,” Athos says.

“No, no. It's fine. Everyone else's partners seem to do it, too. I never really noticed before, but this place is just full of people coming and dragging each other for coffee.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose,” Athos says.

“Good. Off you go, then. Don't you have work?”

Athos goes back to his office, feeling confused and a bit off kilter. He rings Porthos. That seems to be a habit, now. Porthos picks up with a yawn, mumbling something incoherent.

“Did I wake you?” Athos asks unnecessarily.

'Athos,' Porthos says, warm and pleased. 'Hullo.'

“My boss just pulled me into his office for a chat,” Athos says.

'Mm? You in trouble? Crap, what is this shit? Why was I watching Midsomer Murders? This is your fault. You with your thing about Nelson,' Porthos says.

“I still like you best,” Athos says, absently. “Not in trouble. He wanted to ask if you and I are now 'officially an item'. I quote.”

'Oh. Bloody hell. By your boss, you mean Dad. He's such a wanker. Sorry, he's winding me up from afar, I'm afraid. Keeps asking me about it, teasin' me. Thinks it's funny,' Porthos says.

“Okay. I don't mind. Wasn't really sure what to say.”

'That we are 'an item'? If you like.'

“I like. He called me your boyfriend. Or you my boyfriend. I forget.”

'Athos, you're a cop. Tell me, is patricide excusable if your father's a complete twat on purpose just to annoy you?'

Athos laughs, feeling a bit better. Porthos laughs, too.

“Alright. I'll let you go back to Midsomer Murders. You should watch Grantchester instead, it's more dramatic and violent, you'll prefer it.”

'Are you coming over later? I'm bored. Can't do anything, my leg hurts.'

“Wasn't planning on it. I suppose I could? I'm working late, though. Wouldn't be till eight-ish, you'll be mostly asleep by then.”

'Mm, yeah. Maybe tomorrow?'

“Nope. Busy. Lunch on Saturday?”

'Coffee tomorrow?'

“I'll be in court. Nope. Saturday?”

'Fine. Damn it, ow.'

“Alright?” Athos asks, turning to the wall, as if for privacy, even though he's alone.

'Yeah. Just muscle spasms. Did a bit much yesterday. Shit, shit, shit. Cramp.'

“Call your Dad, he can go home. He's not got anything pressing on, I don't think.”

'Alright. See you Saturday.'

“Bye, Porthos.”

Porthos hangs up, and twenty minutes later Treville pops his head in to say he's going home. Athos nods, tossing him the scarf he's been wearing that Porthos likes, a book he thinks Porthos might read, and two apples. Treville raises his eyebrows.

“He'll like them,” Athos says, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“Yes, he will. He rang you?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow, Athos.”

“Bye, sir,” Athos says.

 

Porthos uses the crutch for longer than any of his other injuries seem to last. His thigh and knee give him trouble for months and months. Treville gives up the flat after the six month contract runs out, and goes back home. He offers to take Porthos with him, but Porthos moves to his own place and starts looking for things to do next. Which really means he spends a lot of time on Athos' sofa, browsing the internet. He updates Athos on the weird career paths open to people.

“Did you know you can be a snake milker?”

“I'm gonna write fortune cookies, Ath. I'll be famous. My cookie said so.”

“My therapist told me about, like, plant therapy. I'm gonna be one of those.”

Athos listens patiently, cooks for Porthos, and kicks him out now and then to go home, change, do chores and, hopefully, do things that aren't lying on Athos' sofa. Porthos takes Athos to dinner sometimes, in the name of being romantic. He also buys Athos things, which is hugely embarrassing. Or would be if they weren't weirdly practical. A stapler, a new tie after his gets used as a rope at work, socks after Athos gets soaked to the skin and caked in mud. Gloves, after Porthos realises Athos gets cold hands. A back support cushion for his computer chair, after Athos complains about having to sit there for hours on end.

“Fuck this fucking leg,” Porthos says, dropping into Athos' visitor chair one lunch time.

Athos hadn't been expecting him, and hadn't planned on taking lunch until later. He checks his calendar, and emails Aramis to ask to meet in the afternoon instead, rearranges a meeting with Ninon, and then gives Porthos his attention. He looks tired, and fed up. Athos kicked him out earlier in the week, and has mostly heard from him via text.

“What's up? Hurting?” Athos asks.

“Always fucking hurts. My physical therapist says it's something something muscles something something scar tissue, I don't know I wasn't listening,” Porthos says.

“Hmm. Lunch?” Athos offers, wondering if he can talk Porthos into just going to the canteen for a sandwich, or if Porthos is in a 'sweep Athos off his feet and force him to go Somewhere Nice' mood.

“No. Had a job interview, today. Apparently I can't be a security person with a gimpy leg. Or a hundred other jobs I've applied for. I assumed it'd just go away eventually, so I didn't take it into account.”

“It's not going away?”

“No. Probably not.”

Athos grimaces, then nods. He looks at his case load, sees what he's supposed to be supervising at the moment, then cancels his afternoon meetings with a few emails. He tells Porthos to wait five minutes, then goes to Treville's office.

“What?” Treville says.

“Taking the afternoon off.”

“You are? Is that a question, a demand, or a statement?”

“Statement.”

“Right. Porthos is here, isn't he? Are you skiving off to have sex with my son?”

“No, sir.”

“Fine, fine, as long as your work gets done I suppose an afternoon won't hurt. Tell Porthos he owes me dinner, and that I want him to make that lamb thing he does.”

“Will do, sir,” Athos says.

He takes Porthos home and fusses over him, and they go online to find support and look into jobs which are actually possible and realistic. Athos even makes Porthos toasted cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate, and cuts up a mango for him. Porthos then makes them pasta bake and eats far too much of it, lying around the living-room on the floor groaning.

“Thanks, Athos,” Porthos says, later, lying in bed instead.

“You have an erection,” Athos complains, when Porthos plasters himself over Athos.

“Mm. It'll go away. Thank you. I know you get awkward about me being grateful, but thank you. Just… thank you,” Porthos says.

“It might go away, but in the meantime it's gonna drool on me,” Athos says, shoving gently.

Porthos laughs and rolls onto his back, tugging Athos after him. Athos goes, avoiding Porthos' annoying anatomy and settling comfortably, resting on his ever-softening stomach. Porthos snorts, but ruffles his hair and lets himself be used as a pillow.

 

“I got a job,” Porthos says.

Athos is asleep. He didn't get in until five am, and he was drunk out of his mind, and he is now at the point between hungover and drunk which is distinctly unpleasant. Porthos is supposed to be at Porthos' house, not in Athos' bedroom. Athos wonders how he even got in. He doesn't ask, though, because he is asleep.

“Come on, it's half past twelve, you can't still be sleeping,” Porthos whines. “I've already told you about this three times, it's hard to keep on being excited!”

“G'way,” Athos manages, tugging a pillow over his head.

“Fine. You forgot to lock the door last night, you know. Do you want coffee? Eggs? Bacon? I've made cake, too. And a pie. And a quiche. I got bored waiting for you.”

“Sleeping,” Athos says.

Porthos huffs, flouncing out. Athos sighs contentedly and goes back to sleep for a few hours. He feels better when he wakes, though 'better' as relative to how he was before isn't saying much. He staggers out of the bedroom in search of water and coffee, and finds Porthos in the kitchen, covered in flour, various baked good arrayed around him.

“Morning,” Athos says, mouth gummy.

Porthos gets him a glass of water and a mug of coffee, and Athos decides he's keeping Porthos forever. He also gets given breakfast when he sits, bacon and eggs. Along with an invitation to help himself to the other items around them. Cookies, cakes, pasties.

“Job?” Athos asks, when he's had his coffee and bacon and feels more human. “Is it in a bakery?”

Porthos laughs, grinning at him, looking happy. Athos doesn't care about the job, all of a sudden. Porthos looks happy, which he has been looking less and less recently. Athos holds out a hand, waiting for Porthos to come to him, then pulls him down for some kisses. Porthos pulls away making a face.

“You're disgusting. Were you smoking, last night? Were you drinking whiskey?”

“Yes, and yes. I was celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“Can't remember. Tell me about your job.”

“An ex army buddy runs this charity that works with underprivileged kids, building community and creating opportunities. Pierre Pepin. He's got the budget to hire a couple of staff, and asked me if I was interested. It'd be mostly office work, but I'd get to do some stuff with the kids and some planning and organising things. It sounds interesting.”

“Sounds like something you'll enjoy,” Athos says, smiling.

“Feel a bit weird, getting a job that way,” Porthos says, frowning.

“Look at it as being head-hunted. He knows your skill set and work ethic, and wants you. Right? You weren't best mates or something? Not that it really makes a difference, I suppose.”

“No. We didn't work together that much. Head hunted, huh?”

“Exactly. You've got unique experience and skills, and you work hard. You're not being offered charity here, you'll be an asset to any company.”

“Thanks. Hungover you is nice.”

“Shut up. I'm nice anyway. Are you done with your cooking spree?”

“Mm. Why?”

“Come watch TV or something. I want to cuddle.”

“You want to use me as a cushion, you mean,” Porthos grumbles, but he comes along anyway, stretching his leg out with a wince.

Athos goes to get him the foot rest and a cushion for his thigh, and helps him get comfortable before arranging himself on top. Porthos snorts, but doesn't complain, rubbing Athos' head through his hair and letting him watch awful crime shows.

 

Athos is late. He is also covered in dirt. Not mud, dirt. He smells like a rubbish heap. He's pretty sure there's refuse in his hair. He has it tied back to try and keep it out of his face, but he can smell it. He has no clue where his keys are, and his car key is hardly useful for Porthos' front door. Athos rummages in his pockets for his key, then gives in and presses the buzzer. He's let up without needing to say anything, and he trudges to the top of the building. He walks right past Porthos, kicking off his shoes, and goes to get in the shower, fully clothed.

“Don't strip yet, love,” Porthos says, following him in. “Dad's here. I'll get you a towel and a bin bag for those. And some smellies. And maybe deodorant.”

“Go away,” Athos says.

Porthos brings him all those things, and joggers, and a hoody that belongs to Porthos so swamps Athos. And warm socks. Athos scrubs himself until he no longer feels sticky, until he no longer has the smell up his nose. He puts his clothes in the bin bag supplied, dresses, and then goes out to the living-room. Treville's there, in the arm chair, holding a beer, head back to talk to Porthos in the kitchen.

“Sir,” Athos says, dropping onto the sofa and spreading himself out, lying down.

“Did you eat, Ath?” Porthos calls.

“No. Not since this morning,” Athos says, stomach rumbling.

Porthos brings him toast and a kiss, and a glass of juice. Athos eats ravenously, sitting up, ignoring Treville and Porthos' conversation.

“So, how did you end up in a bin?” Porthos asks, sitting beside Athos, grinning.

“I thought you were making dinner,” Athos grumbles.

“It's in the oven.”

“Leg alright?” Athos asks. “You were doing… some active thing today, no?

“It's fine. Just refereeing football, it was fun.”

“He fell over,” Treville says, beaming. “Flat on his back in a puddle. One of his kids took a photo of the occasion.”

“And how did you get hold of it?” Athos asks.

“Pierre sent it to me,” Treville says, passing his phone across.

Athos smiles. Porthos is, indeed, flat on his back. He's also covered in children and looks like he's bellowing with laughter. Porthos takes the phone away and throws it back at Treville.

“I was injured,” Porthos says.

“You were?” Athos asks, wondering if it hurt Porthos' leg. Or maybe his ribs, which are healed but probably weak or something.

Porthos nods, pouting, eyes big and sad. He holds out his hand and pulls his sleeve up a bit to reveal a tiny scratch on his wrist. Athos laughs, which makes Porthos pout harder. Athos takes his hand and kisses the scratch, which makes Porthos smile softly, and Treville roll his eyes. Pierre has also sent Treville some other pictures, of Porthos and the kids. He shows them to Athos when Porthos goes back to the kitchen.

“He looks happy,” Treville says, softly, smiling.

“He likes the work,” Athos says, equally soft.

“Stop talkin' about me!” Porthos calls.

“We're not!” Athos says.

“I know you are, I always know when you're talkin' about me,” Porthos says, poking his head back in the room to scowl at them. “Dinner's ready, anyway.”

It's baked potatoes and chilli, and Athos eats hungrily. Porthos makes good chilli. When they're done, Athos is given wine and left with Treville to talk about work while Porthos limps around the kitchen clearing up.

“Porthos, leave that,” Athos calls, when the limp starts to become pronounced. “I'll do it in the morning before work.”

“Just the dishes,” Porthos says.

“Come on,” Athos says. “Constance stole our cushions again.”

“Doesn't she have her own cushions?” Porthos grumbles, coming in. “Can't d'Artagnan buy her some?”

Athos pats the sofa next to him, and then curls up on Porthos. His stomach's now big and soft and Athos loves it. Loves sleeping on it, cuddling it, using it as a cushion, everything. Treville grumps about them being affectionate in front of him, and gets up to go. He comes over to kiss Porthos' forehead, lingering a moment to finger his hair.

“I love you, buttons,” Treville says. “I'm glad you're happy and safe, even if you must snuggle like this in front of me.”

“Love you too, Dad,” Porthos says, ignoring the rest. “See you Monday for lunch?”

Treville leaves, and Athos puts the TV on, yawning. Porthos scritches at his scalp, putting him to sleep. Athos wakes up in Porthos' arms, being borne to the bedroom. Athos mumbles about Porthos' leg, but Porthos just mumbles wordlessly back and laughs at him. They're moving at a slow, unequal gait, Athos supposes Porthos is fine and snuggles down. He's set on the bed, and Porthos lies beside him.

“I love you, Athos. Never say it when you're awake, you're so scared of it. But I do. I love you so much. Every bit of you. Even the fear. Gonna make you feel safe, for as long as possible.”

Athos doesn't ever tell Porthos that he hears that, or how wonderful it is. Porthos does it a lot, though, when Athos is half asleep, almost asleep, probably when he's fully asleep too. Athos suspects Porthos knows perfectly well he sometimes hears it.


End file.
